


Ouroboros

by slayonhands



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, F/M, Funsies is such a stupid word, Gen, Hope you have funsies, M/M, Sugar daddy Laurent, Writing this for funsies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 20:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17008764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slayonhands/pseuds/slayonhands
Summary: In dire straits, Damen needs $. Laurent has an interfering uncle. Basically Captive Prince but y'know, Sugar Daddies.





	Ouroboros

**Author's Note:**

> This was spurred by a throw-away comment made on Tumblr. It's also completely indulgent according to my tastes, so.  
> No Laurent in this chapter, but he's comin'. I don't have a beta, so take this as you will!

     Trapped. He didn’t know how else to describe the feeling. The old couch, that was all at once his bed and general living space, sunk under his weight as he shifted into a sitting position. The inexpensive tank top he wore both to bed and beneath his button-up black shirts for work was starting to smell a bit ripe, but laundry day wasn’t for another two days - a spot-clean with hand-soap in the sink would have to get him through. He sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand through his thick hair and over his face, in an effort to push back the exhaustion through sheer will. Last night he had managed five hours of sleep, and with his first class starting in under an hour he needed to get a move on.  
     Standing, he folded the polyester duvet into a square small enough to fit onto the top shelf of his closet, along with the pillow he slept on. He considered himself fortunate that both of the other young men he shared the flat with respected the closet as his ‘room’, and left it - and the small bookshelf next to the couch where he kept his school material - alone. With the plastic basket that held his dollar-store washing-up kit, he headed for the washroom. It still smelled a bit like the dishwashing liquid he’d used to scrub out the major fixtures the day before. A major step-up for its usual bio-odours.  
     The shower spluttered to life, jettisoning rock-hard water out of the calcium-coated shower-head. With a sigh he peeled off his shirt and sweatpants and stepped into the rust-stained tub, pulling the white plastic curtain behind him. He let his head hang under the coarse water, and watched it stream down his chin and chest. His fingers rose to the ropey gold chain that hung to his collar-bone, and wrapping it in a tight fist, pressed into his throat.

=====

     “A _parting_ gift?” he repeated, incredulous.  
     Six seats down, at the end of the oval Honduran mahogany conference table which had, up until five minutes ago held a fleet of company lawyers, they wore matching smirks. She spoke for them both, of course, her plush lips in the perfect shade of pink: “Something to remember us by, while you endeavour on this...journey.”  
     He cracked the black box open, and with a robotic motion, pulled out a chain necklace. It was of exquisite make, of course, high quality gold bonded into a cylindrical chord that would provide a subtle weight against his skin. Staring at it, he jumped when it was delicately lifted from his hands by ten red-tipped fingers. The smell of her perfume made him sigh, perhaps for old time’s sake. The breast of her blazer brushed his hair as she lifted the chain over his head and let it settle over the open collar of his fine shirt.  
     “Father surely set you this task for a purpose, Damen,” he heard Kastor say in his gruff tenor.  
     “That’s right,” Jokaste affirmed, tucking the chain beneath his shirt and against his skin with a cool touch that lingered. “You are driven, capable, and intelligent, and you will return with all of the life experience that your father could have hoped for in a CEO.”  
     He let his eyes follow her form as she returned to her seat beside Kastor, the tailored dress and highest of heels creating the effect they always did on her - that of a honed blade. She closed the leather folio she carried to all appointments, even if she did not need it for reference or notes. It had gone untouched in the prior meeting - apparently nothing from the reading of Theomedes’ will had been presented that caught her attention.  
     While his father had been dying, Damen hadn’t once allowed himself to consider the fallout of both their family and company patriarch’s passing. When Theomedes had collapsed during a game of squash on their estate’s courts, Damen had been at their family villa near Athens ‘hosting’ Greek business partners - a full charm offensive to keep good will high. The private jet delivered him to his father’s bedside within hours of the news. It was only another two days before he watched his chest rise and fall for the final time. He and his brother had comforted each other throughout their father’s decline, and he could still feel his firm embrace around his shoulders as he had wept.  
     Now though, from where he reclined in the fine leather chair at the head of the table, Kastor’s gaze seemed devoid of that same warmth. He hadn’t thought ahead as to what he should expect from the reading of his father’s official will, but what had been so coolly delivered by Jokaste’s team of lawyers had been nothing he could have imagined. He didn’t understand why his father would have left such a shock as this to be delivered only after he was out of Damen’s reach.  
     “You are in a much better position than many, Damen - you’re being set up to succeed,” said Jokaste.  
     He felt a hot rush flood his senses, and he couldn’t help but spit out his retort: “Succeed!  
I have to leave everything I know! I have nothing!”  
     “Not so, you’ll have funds to help you find initial accommodation, and you are enrolled in the excellent business program at-”  
     “With no one!” he shouted, slamming a fist on the table. Jokaste’s physical jolt in her seat gave him something to grasp onto to return to himself, and he worked his temper back over a few strained moments. “I don’t…” he eventually continued, “I don’t understand how being thrust into the world with little money, no employment, nowhere to go, and only the clothes on my back is supposed to be setting me up for success,” he finished with a hiss.  
     “You lack life experience, brother. Father knew this, and didn’t want to leave the running of his company to a young man who has barely seen the world outside of this gilded one,” Kastor said in a detached tone.  
     Damen seethed. “True as that might be, how am I-”  
     “As we said,” Kastor interrupted, “You are more than capable of attaining this goal set by father. Adrastus will assist you in the process.” With a beckoning gesture aimed beyond the glass conference room doors, the intimate seal of the room was broken. The company machine began to churn and by the day’s end, Damen was in a mid-range hotel room with nothing but the clothes he had worn to the will reading, a small suitcase, and $1000 in cash in his $5000 wallet. And, the gold chain that would always stay hung around his neck. A reminder of what he’d lost, and what he would regain.

=====

     After his shower Damen made quick work of cooking and eating his usual breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, then packed his all-purpose duffel bag for the day ahead. His school papers and books went on top of his thrift-store workout clothes, along with the extra charger he’d picked up from the convenience store last week. His phone had been the least expensive one he could find that had decent speed when on wifi, and even though he didn’t pay for more than the smallest amount of data in case of an emergency, it still somehow managed to drain its battery within hours of being unplugged. Considering it was the only piece of technology that he could lay personal claim to, he took great pains to keep it alive.  
     Ever since the ‘transition’, as Jokaste had called his ousting in the days after, his life online had been erased. He was forbidden from having any kind of online presence, as per the legal stipulations of his ‘inheritance’. His social media accounts, full of photos of his travels and exploits, had been shut down on request by the company. In the earliest days he had continued to troll around the profiles of his brother, Jokaste, and some of his closer friends - but now it felt pointless. He’d ached with every addition to their ‘highlight reels’, and the longer he spent away from chronicling his own daily events, the less he found he cared. Now, he could barely imagine having the time or energy to put towards maintaining the social life - either real or online - that he once had. Between school, bartending, and recovering from both of those things, his days were repetitive and relatively solitary. He’d lost contacts with all of his friends but Jokaste - who had requested his new number for the occasional check-in text - and one other: his childhood friend Nikandros, whose username he’d remembered on Whatsapp. Even Snapchat was off limits, because the company worried that anything he sent could eventually be data-mined down the line. This journey, transition, whatever everyone else was calling it, was in truth a vanishing. Damianos Akielos, son of Theomedes Akielos, CEO of one of the most-traded companies on the planet, had been thoroughly vanished.  
     Before he pulled his phone out of the wall he took a minute to respond to the last message he’d received: _Ok night?_ Nik wasn’t at all happy about Damen’s situation, and had initially sworn he would find some legal recourse against Jokaste and her team. He worked within the legal department at a major branch of the Akielos company, and his offer to stand up to Damen’s brother and second in command bore testament to his love for him. But when Damen had insisted that he would see out his father’s wishes, Nik had deferred to him. As it stood, he checked in with Damen every morning.  
_Ya fine. Decent tips. Got home by 2:30. x_  
     Pocketing his phone, he slid on his windbreaker and slung his duffle bag over his chest. If he left now, he could catch the bus that would deliver him to the subway, which would get him to campus in time for his first class.

=====

     He was almost always one of the last students out of each lecture. Without a laptop to make note-taking more expedient, he usually lingered to either finish scribbling down the last points or to check in with the professor to confirm anything he might have missed. Some days his mind was a bit foggier than others, depending on how much sleep he’d gotten the night before. Most days he was able to record at least some of the lecture on his phone to review later on, but he had to watch to make sure that it didn’t run out of space or battery. The upside to patchworking the contents of a lecture together each day was that he became very familiar with the material, and it was reflected in his grades.  
     That particular morning he managed to wrap up the last of his notes in time to leave the lecture hall and make it to the gym before too much time passed. He had another class in the afternoon, but with three hours in between he wanted to get in a workout, a quick meal, and some time in the library. He was grateful that part of his tuition paid for access to the school’s fitness facilities. Six months ago, he and Nik had entered as individuals in the regional Crossfit games, and had qualified to compete at the national level. The competition had, of course, come and gone with neither showing up - the registration fee made it out of the question for Damen, and so Nik refused to go without him. He might not be able to maintain quite the same level of muscle mass as he had with a team of personal trainers and nutritionists at his disposal, but he was determined to hang onto at least some of his old routines.  
     About an hour later he made his way over to the smoothie stand just outside of the gym, and felt a small smile pull at his lips when he saw who was working. She was serving another customer, and today her name-tag said Cindy. The first day she had served him, it had read Zoe. He remembered because on the second day it had read Sarah, and that’s when they started their flirtation - he asked her about the change and she revealed she had a label-maker in the back. Changing it up helped keep a job all about blending fruit interesting, she’d explained. When he had laughed his wide laugh, the one that really showed off his dimple, she had giggled back at him in a flush. It hadn’t been completely intentional on his part, but that was the day he had started getting an extra scoop of protein powder in his shakes.  
     She had a long dark pony-tail that she wore high, pulled above the band of her visor that was the same light green colour as her uniform polo shirt. While he waited to be served he allowed his mind to slow, and take in the sight of her as she scooped and reached and moved. A few weeks after they had discovered each other at the stand, when the name she wore said Elyssa, they had indulged in a longer conversation than usual. The campus hall had been quiet, and their murmurs became warm music as they both leaned in closer across the counter. Making a woman laugh again had been a heady feeling, and he found himself quickly drunk with longing - a mix of arousal, and remembering.  
     When their words fell to a lull and he saw her bite her lip, he had found himself drawing up further on the counter, slowly, into intimate space. She’d let him bring his mouth to her left ear, where he’d drawn the silky studded lobe between his lips with a curl of his tongue. The sound of her breath hitching, the smell of her shampoo and sweat at her hairline, the feeling of her earlobe against the flicking of his tongue between gentle teeth - all of it had left him seized with need. Hopeful and bold, he’d drawn back and jerked his gaze and chin towards the door to what he knew was a back room.  
     She slapped a ‘be right back!’ sign on the counter and lead him into the back via the side door. Within moments their mouths found each other in the small space, and he had her lifted up into his hands and sat on the lid of a large chest freezer. With more than a foot of height to his advantage, he was able to lay her back flat and curl his long torso over her. He slid his calloused palms up her soft sides, pulling the polo up over her breasts. He ran his face - each cheekbone, his sharp nose, his mouth, his chin - over and down her plush body, moaning as he drank in the soft flesh and sounds of a woman for the first time in almost two months. Eventually, with his mouth and fingers between her legs, he visited his old sense of self without hurry. Every lover he’d had between high thread-count sheets, or at a stunning location, or against the buttery leather of luxury car seats - all of them haunted each moment he spent wrapped up in her body. When it crescendoed, her body spasming around him, he’d been shocked to find he was fighting back tears.  
     She had been confused when he’d gently assured her he didn’t want anything done in return, all soft smiles and kisses to her face and hands. They hid the fact that returning to the honesty of his immediate reality had left his insides feeling shaken - a shock akin to the feeling of waking up alone, in a strange bed. He had let her return the gesture three nights later, when she found him at the bar where he worked and pulled him into the employee washroom. Since then, the only things they exchanged were orders for drinks and a free shot - of protein for him, vodka for her - and knowing grins.  
     Today was the same - she playfully wrinkled her nose at his wet hair, his brown-black curls still damp from the quick sink-wash he’d done after his workout, and joked with him about her job. He watched her make his drink with enough appreciation that she knew he was doing so - after all, who was he to turn down the chance for a bit of consensual ogling? She passed him his drink with a squeeze to his bicep, saying, “see you Monday.”

=====

     He dropped into one of the free chairs in the club’s downstairs break room with a heavy sigh, grateful for the fifteen minutes away from the activity and noise. Thursdays weren’t as busy as Fridays, but the music was loud and as the night wore on the patrons were getting more plentiful, and more inebriated. He made his best tips when he really turned on the charm, and while he found it energizing and easy enough in the moment, he almost always felt a rebound toward fatigue as soon as he had a moment to himself.  
     He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket and put his feet up on the dingy excuse for a coffee table that sat in the center of what he and the other staff called ‘the bunker’. The room was just a motley collection of chairs, a fridge that held a few condiments and some leftovers, and a larger table where people sat to eat. The walls were mostly bare but for the work schedule and a few workplace-safety posters, taped-up to meet safety codes. The saving grace to the space was that it was fairly quiet, with only the faintest thump of the music making it down, and the wifi was free and strong.  
When he unlocked his phone, among a few texts from Nik, he was met with a message from an number he didn’t recognize: _Still looking for a daddy?_  
     With a snort he quickly replied: _?? Wrong number._ He swiped to delete it, and then spent the rest of his short break replying to Nik and reading a few news items. Just as he was tucking his phone away, he felt it buzz and checked to find another strange message: _Hi gorgeous_  
He couldn’t remember if it was the same number as the last one, so this time after he responded similarly he left it, in case it happened again. Probably some pushy dweeb who was given a wrong number at a club, and he just got to be the lucky person who ended up on the receiving end.

=====

     Although the text he’d gotten the night before had been left on Read with nothing more, when he woke up the next morning it was to another half-dozen of a similar nature, all from different numbers. _Hey baby/Ur beautiful/I’d love to be your daddy/I want to spoil u/Let me be your daddy/Let me take care of you_  
     To this first batch he copied and pasted the same ‘wrong number’ reply, but when his phone kept lighting up with push notifications during his morning lecture, he resolved to just delete the lot of them when he had a free minute. After his class he stayed in his seat for a minute and bent over his phone, scrolling in disbelief at how many distinct unknown numbers had texted him pick-up lines. He felt his brow scrunch in confusion at how many kept using the word ‘daddy’, and his head jerked back at the first one that was just a dick pic. He deleted the other two that didn’t have any text in the preview, too irritated to even be curious.  
      _Something fucking weird is happening to me, he texted to Nik._  
_?_  
     He took a screenshot of his inbox and sent it, along with And that’s only a third of them, I’ve already deleted a ton.  
      _Wtf_  
      _Did someone put my number online or in an ad or something??_ As he typed he realized this could very well be the case, so he hastily put his number into a search engine and looked through results. All that came up were generic phonebook and ‘who-called-me?’ pages. He sagged back in the small lecture chair in a moment of relief, but it was soon broken by Nik’s reply: _Oh fuck dude_  
     His next text was a link, which included the words: “whatsurprice” and a profile ID.  
     Damen’s heart rate spiked into the ceiling when he clicked through. The website’s header - Find Your Sugar Daddy - loaded above a profile that clearly included his information and pictures. I searched for your number and the word daddy since it kept showing up in those texts Nik wrote. He quickly shot back a series of question marks and expletives, and then started to scroll over the profile, his hand covering his mouth to prevent a shout of rage from leaving him and into the emptying lecture hall. He could hardly focus on the contents of the page for the adrenaline coursing through him, and he jumped almost out of his seat when a hand touched his shoulder. His professor was looking at him with a slightly concerned smile, and reminded him that another class would be arriving soon.  
     He apologized and quickly gathered up his things, dashing out of the hall and immediately making his way to the library and its bank of public computers. He could feel his phone buzzing in his hand as he ran, but he couldn’t bear to check it in case it was anyone other than Nik.  
     When he managed to secure a computer that was somewhat tucked away from public view, he tried re-creating the search process Nik had and sure enough, the profile popped up first when he included his phone number and ‘daddy’. There wasn’t much to it, other than his specs - height, weight, colouring, body type - and a write-up that made his skin feel suddenly too tight to contain him.  
      _Hi, I’m Damen. I’m a 25 yo business student by day, bartender and party-boy by night. I’m looking for a sugar daddy who can support me while I try to make my way in the world. Will you take care of me? Texts only._  
     In the ‘contact’ section was his cell-phone number, and an inter-site messaging system that ironically, he couldn’t access since he didn’t have the login information. Below that were four pictures, which fixed him in horror. The first had been taken at a family event last year, with him in a casual navy suit and peach-coloured shirt. He had been smiling warmly with his arm slung around Kastor, but the photo cropped him out. The next two were brand new to him, and he had to bite down hard to stop from exclaiming in the quiet library. One had been taken from behind him in the gym, in the bottom of an overhead squat. His physique was on full display beneath the sweat-soaked shirt he wore. The last was a candid photo of him behind the bar at work, a wide smile directed at a patron while he mixed a drink. In both cases the photographer couldn’t have been more than a few feet away from him, and he’d had no idea.  
     When he clicked over to the last photo, he only needed to see it for a millisecond before he spasmed in his seat and immediately scrolled away from it. It was a nude bathroom-mirror selfie, with only a towel he held in front of himself preventing total exposure. He’d taken and sent it months ago, to only one person - Jokaste.  
     The fire in his veins and turned to ice, and he numbly checked his phone again. Three more messages from strangers who had found this profile, and four from Nik with rising levels of concern. _So this isn’t you right? / We can get it taken down asap / You ok? / Damen??_  
_No,_ he replied, _That isn’t me._

=====

     With only a bit of editing from Nik, Damen wrote out an e-mail using his best ‘legalese’ and got the fake profile taken down within hours of sending. The texts stopped coming, other than a few who had the nerve to get petulant about not getting a reply. He only just managed to refrain from sending them a picture of just a raised middle finger before blocking them - Nik had to talk him down off of that particular ledge.  
     He hadn’t yet figured out how to handle the fact that the profile had very likely been created in the first place by Jokaste, who was not only his ex, but also Kastor’s fiancee. His brother knew about their dallience, it had been no secret, but it was made clear that for the three of them, only the present state of their relationships made acceptable conversation.  
     At first, the realization of her betrayal had made him want to hide it, and he hadn’t wanted to tell Nik. A small voice told him that it would make him appear even more pathetic in the eyes of his friend, and that he had been a fool to send her that - and the other - pictures in the first place. Maybe he should count himself lucky she hadn’t used any of the more explicit pics and leave it at that. But the longer he maintained that silence the sicker he felt, so just after he finished getting dressed for work that night he told Nik his suspicion, in brief, via text.  
     With it being Friday night he didn’t bother to bring anything with him other than his coat and his wallet. The leather jacket he’d been wearing on his first night alone stayed hung in his closet most of the time, unless he was going out and could keep a keen eye on it. Tonight he was dressed in his usual work uniform: a black collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up over black pants, and a pair of black shoes that were more comfortable than they looked. He buttoned his shirt up high enough to hide his necklace, shouldered on his waterproof coat, and quickly ran his fingers through his hair a few times in the mirror before heading out.  
     He opted to take the stairs down to the ground floor, despite the unpleasant smell that flavoured the concrete hallway. It might have been the flickering fluorescent light, or the fact that he reached for his phone when he felt it buzz in his pocket, but he didn’t immediately notice the man waiting for him at the curb of his apartment building’s main door.  
     “Pardon me, Damen?” a proper voiced asked.  
     He jumped a little at the sound of his name, but quickly locked gazes with the source. “Yes?” he replied almost without thinking, and then mentally kicked himself for not being on high alert after the incident with the website. The man who had called his name had a severe but fairly handsome face, middle-aged, trim, in a long wool coat the quality of which Damen made swift note. He was standing beside a sleek black town car, which was still running.  
     When Damen acknowledged him, he offered a slightly pinched smile and said, “Good evening, my name is Guion, and I am here representing my employer. He hopes you will be agreeable to meeting with him tonight.” He removed one hand from his coat pocket and gestured to the car. “I’m here to take you to him, in comfort.”  
     At first he felt only a slight confusion, and it must have showed in his expression. “Employer? Who -” He felt his phone buzz again in his hand, and his face went dark with realization. “Is this about that fucking website?” he asked, pulling his shoulders back and down. From his gut he summoned fresh anger, and let it settle like armour around his flesh.  
     Guion’s smile wavered but failed to drop, although he did clasp both hands in front of him in a formal gesture. “My employer did become aware of you through Find your Sugar Daddy dot com, yes.”  
Damen did not appreciate his tone. With a slight snarl he took a step forward and growled, “I didn’t make that profile in the first place, and now it’s gone, so tell your pervert boss he’ll have to find a new boytoy to play with.”  
     After he’d turned his back on both the messenger and the car, ready to put it all behind him, Guion replied in a slightly raised voice: “He would like to ensure you’re cared for.” Damen flipped him a pronounced middle finger and kept walking. “Imagine, Damen - the $70,000 you owe in loans and tuition could vanish.”  
     He stopped.


End file.
